


Imitating Life

by Denise



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 06:06:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Denise/pseuds/Denise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George indulges in his hobby</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imitating Life

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Disclaimer Stargate Sg-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.

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Rich, vibrant blue streaked across the canvas, haphazardly bisecting the pristine white surface. Strong, slightly callused fingers slid through the thick paint. He frowned and brought up his hand, digging it into the pallet and then across the canvas. Brilliant saffron yellow mingled with the blue, hinting at the green they could be in the places where they crossed. Yellow and blue, two colors that reminded him of two of his own. Bright, serious blue eyes, alive with intelligence and often amusement. The blond hair that glinted in the feeble light, at times a beacon of calm in the chaos.

Reaching out blindly, he gathered up more paint, smearing it on with the rest. Burnt Sienna, his mind supplied as his fingers caressed the canvas, his short nails scraping the smooth surface. Reaching a glob of yellow, he idly doodled, the paint soft and warm beneath his touch.

Such a strong face, those amber eyes full of knowledge and mirth, often tempered with regret. So much baggage, so many burdens he carried. It was a wonder he didn't bow and break under the pressure. It spoke of an inner strength that dwarfed his impressive muscles.

Reaching over with his other hand he scooped up more color, mingling it with the rest. The red stood out in garish contrast, drawing his eyes to follow his hand as he slowly stroked the canvas. How many times? How much blood was on those hands? How many people has he sent to their deaths, and how many more are yet to come?

Suddenly depressed, he flattened out his hand, smearing the colors together until the canvas was a cacophony of riotous color. The red, blue, brown and yellow meshed and merged, becoming more than they were in the beginning. Tilting his head he smiled at a gorgeous purple streak running parallel to a smear of orange, the emerald green stripe wobbling across the canvas.

It reminded him of a sunrise, the colorful chaos banishing the dark of night, replacing the black with uncontrolled color. He'd seen so many in his lifetime, and had yet to see two that were the same. Each one was unique, just as were his people. Each sunrise banished the night in a different way, some were slow and stately, others burst over the horizon, exploding into color.

Each was different, yet each accomplished the same in the end. 

The phone rang, roughly pulling him from his contemplation. Wiping his hands off, he picked up the device, despite his efforts, smearing the handset with color. "Yes? How bad is it? All right. I'll be right in."

George Hammond hung up the phone and looked regretfully at his half-finished work of art. 

He shook his head, pushing the artist back inside to let the officer out. Duty called. As it always did. At least he could take solace in knowing that his art would still be waiting for him when he returned. 

~Fin~  


 


End file.
